“Is she come forth yet?” asked Guy.
Annora shook her flaxen curls. Guy went to the little window, and glanced within. The grey figure was plainly visible, kneeling in prayer, with the head bent low, and resting against a ledge of the rock which formed the walls of the little dwelling. The monk sat down on a piece of rock outside the cell, and soon so completely lost himself in thought that Annora grew weary of her amusement before he spoke again. She did not, however, leave him; but when she had thrown away her flowers, and had spent some minutes in a vain search for a four-leaved clover, fairly tired out, she came and stood before him.
“The shadow is nearly straight, Father Guy. Will she be much longer, do you think?”
Guy started suddenly when Annora spoke.
“There is something amiss,” he replied, in a tone of apprehension. “I never knew her so long before. Has she heard my news already?”
He looked in again. The grey veiled figure had not changed its position. After a moment’s irresolution, Guy laid his hand upon the latch. The monk and the child entered together,—Guy with a face of resolute endurance, as though something which would cost him much pain must nevertheless be done; Annora with one of innocent wonder, not unmixed with awe.
Guy took one step forward, and stopped suddenly.
“O Father Guy!” said Annora in a whisper, “the Grey Lady is not praying,—she is asleep.”
“Yes, she is asleep,” replied Guy in a constrained voice. “‘So He giveth His beloved sleep.’ He knew how terribly the news would pain her; and He would let none tell it to her but Himself. ‘I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and earth!’”
“But how strangely she sleeps!” cried Annora, still under her breath. “How white she is! and she looks so cold! Father Guy, won’t you awake her? She is not having nice dreams, I am afraid.”